


The Second Time with an Obscurus

by Indigo55



Category: Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them (Movies)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-18
Updated: 2018-11-18
Packaged: 2019-08-25 10:12:12
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,286
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16659212
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Indigo55/pseuds/Indigo55
Summary: This was the first fanfic I ever wrote.  I pulled it down some time ago and gave it a rewrite and have decided to repost it. Let's hear it for Pick's invaluable contributions to CofG!  And the Niffler, of course!As mentioned, the springboard was flameinflight's "Fantastic Humans and How To Keep Them Safe" - I thank her.





	The Second Time with an Obscurus

Newt was being an idiot – again. So, Pickett splayed his slender green stick of a body across Newt’s palm, and clung with all his might to his fingers, frustrating any attempt to put him on the wiggam tree. Perched in the wiggam the other bowtruckles watched this avidly, their tiny black eyes winking among the leaves and branches, finding the drama greatly entertaining; Pickett was always good value.

“You NEED me!” he bellowed (as much as a bowtruckle can bellow), “You NEED me, Newt, stop being stupid! What are you thinking?! How can I take care of you if I’m on this tree?! You’re going to do something really dumb, I know it, and without me you’re going to get KILLED, don’t you GET it?!”

“Pickett, there’s nothing to discuss, and I have no time,” Newt told him curtly, “It’s far too dangerous – bugger it, can’t you hear Frank?!” He spoke in his typically mild voice, but at present it had steel in it. Unrelenting, he continued to speak over the bowtruckle’s histrionics. “I have to go, and I can’t have you with me. If I’d done this earlier the business with the goblin would never have happened.” 

“The ‘business with the goblin’ only happened because you went to that place!” Pickett continued to rage. “That was dumb, Newt! That shouty woman took us there, and now she’s going to take you somewhere even worse, isn’t she? And without ME!!”  


Completely out of character, his Newt-tree yelled. He yelled! “NO!” he cried, “I will not take you into something like this, you must stay here!”

Stunned into silence by his tree’s outburst, Pick still couldn't let go of haunting recent memories: of being handed over to a goblin by his own tree, yes, but also...of a certain room, a place that humans made to make death. The thought of his Newt-tree back in that room, there to be killed, without Pickett to help him, filled him with utter horror. He paid no mind to that tone in Newt’s voice - Newt had to listen to him, he HAD to listen! 

“NO, I won't!!!" he bowtruckle-roared, stopped grasping at Newt’s fingers, and used the leverage of his feet on a wiggam branch to leap, landing halfway up his human-tree’s arm. He flashed up the arm, the shoulder, and finally to the top of Newt’s head, firmly gripping the thick wavy hair and burying himself in it as deeply as possible. This was a last-ditch gambit, but the time and effort that would be involved in extracting him sometimes made Newt stop acting on whatever idiocy was in his head...like leaving Pickett behind and going into a dangerous situation.

For bowtruckles are tree guardians, born to it by nature. This means it’s a bowtruckle’s task in life to see to the continuing wellbeing of their home tree. So as he was the bowtruckle who lived on the “human-tree” known as Newt Scamander, it was Pickett’s job, his mission, 24/7, to see off any and all influences that would do his tree harm; since most all bowtruckles have this relationship with their home tree, it really was the most natural thing in the world. Pickett had had to do some adapting to his unique situation, of course. He interpreted “harm” to include that which made Newt unhappy in any way. (Trees are rather hard to make unhappy, at least so that you’d notice it, but his Newt-tree had recurring problems in this area.) Pickett meant to be the bane of anyone who crossed Newt, and he usually was. And since Newt found it impossible to stay out of trouble for very long, Pick’s vigilance could never falter…

A burst of chittering giggles from the wiggam made plain the other bowtruckles’ delight with the turn of events; at times like this they could watch Newt and Pickett all day. But then they saw Newt’s face, as Pickett could not; he wore an expression they’d never seen before. The giggling stopped.

“Pickett,” Newt spoke softly, again, “Every moment counts. Don’t make me – make you. Please.” And he hesitantly raised his magical stick in his hand. Pick had an excellent view of its’ tip, pointed straight at him.

The silence in the case became deafening. It was as if every living creature there was holding their breath. Newt had never ever threatened to use his magic against any of them. He used it to help, to heal, to comfort, just about constantly – but to make them behave? To bend them to his will? The silence spun out, second after second…

Pickett froze. It was as if the world had stopped. Pick knew Newt would never, ever deliberately hurt him, or force him, with magic or without. At least – he’d thought he knew…Yet…today had happened. _Today he gave me away to a goblin – a goblin! And a really nasty looking one too! And now he’s telling me he’s going to - curse me, for wanting to protect him like I’m supposed to._

Stupidity he was used to, but this -? 

“Pickett – please don’t make me do it.” Newt was begging.

In the continuing tense quiet, Pickett climbed back down Newt’s arm, and without stopping clambered from his hand onto the tree branch he’d just left. He stood on the branch, his back to his human-tree, and said nothing more.

Seconds passed. Neither moved. Then Newt said, “I’ll explain later…Pick. I promise.” His voice was hoarse with emotion, but next instant he was gone, and by the time Pickett turned to peer behind himself he was nowhere in sight. A few seconds later running footsteps on wooden stairs were heard, followed by the echoing slam of the shed door.

And as if to bring home exactly what was happening, Frank the Thunderbird again began to raise a cry; thunder rolled out of his habitat, and his mighty wings could be heard beating. DANGER. DANGER.

Pickett sat down on the branch, his bowtruckle thoughts a whirl. _He threatened me. How could he do that? To me? All I’ve ever wanted is to keep him safe. How can he not know that?_

Another bowtruckle, Titus, approached his branch. He deeply disliked Titus. Titus was jealous of his relationship with Newt, so he tried to bully him a lot. He could hear him chuckling.

“Your boyfriend gone off and left you? He wanted to get rid of you so badly he was going to _curse_ you,” Titus jeered in his nasty way.  


“Newt is my _tree,”_ Pickett answered, not bothering to look at Titus – possibly unwise, since Titus was not above attacking when someone wasn’t looking.

“Some tree,” snarked Titus, “he went off and left you. I ask you, what kind of tree leaves a bowtruckle? The other way around, I’ve heard of, but a tree leaving a bowtruckle? It’s unnatural.”  


Pickett was hurting badly enough; he didn’t need Titus and his meanness. “Go away. I don’t want to hear you. If I had a whole hollow stump full of billywigs’ butts, I wouldn't give one for what you think.”

Now Titus looked angry. He began to climb closer to Pickett, probably to thump him. 

“Stop it, Titus, leave him alone,” came a command from further up in the tree. It was Poppy, one of the bowtruckles who was actually decent to Pickett…most of the time. She meant something to Titus. He had been courting her for a while and getting nowhere, but he wasn’t ready to give up yet (Titus was stubborn as well as mean); and after considering whether the satisfaction of thumping Pickett would be worth annoying Poppy, he decided to let this pass. For now.

“Next time I owe you one, Picky,” he snarled, quietly so that only Pickett could hear, and then he moved away.

All the other bowtruckles kept their distance. They thought Pickett was rather odd, with his “Newt-tree” fixation, as they thought of it. Certainly, one should care for, and, if need be, defend one’s tree; that was a bowtruckle’s raison d’être. But trees are trees, and the wizard was - not. As much as all the residents of the wiggam tree appreciated the wizard (except probably Titus), he just wasn’t a tree, not of any sort, and how Pickett could have chosen him as his tree was beyond bowtruckle understanding. There was a also a general opinion in the wiggam that Pickett behaved the way he did to get Newt to favor him, and that this had been one of the rare times his act didn’t work.  


The shock of Newt’s threat was beginning to ebb in Pickett’s heart and head, making room for other thoughts and feelings to rush in. _Something must be really wrong. Really really wrong. He must be doing something REALLY dangerous. He **said** it was dangerous. FRANK says it’s dangerous!_ His hurt and anger faded and Pickett was stricken with fear for his Newt-tree. _How can he go into danger and just - leave me behind? He really doesn’t know the worse it is, the more he needs me?_ And Pickett’s eternal question: _Why does he do such stupid things?_  


Then his inner plea brought a brand new thought, absolutely out of nowhere: for the first time ever, it now occurred to Pickett that Newt was trying to protect him from danger. He scoffed, _But that’s totally wrong!...It’s my job to take care of Newt, Newt is my tree! Trees don’t take care of bowtruckles, bowtruckles take care of trees! It’s stupid! It’s idiotic! It’s worse than that “attachment issues” crap!_  


Newt was always doing stupid things from Pickett’s point of view.  


But the more he thought about it, the mad, the insane idea that his human-tree might be trying to keep the bowtruckle out of harm’s way - the more it became likely; it became a revelation. This was an event. He was rarely so introspective, because he was a bowtruckle, and because it meant thinking of Before Newt time, which he hated to do.  


Now he remembered the first time he heard the soft voice; the first time he saw those eyes, a mix of the blue of the sky and the green of the leaf; how kind and gentle he had been, more nurturing than any tree he had ever known. He had given Pickett delicious woodlice to eat, all he wanted, and provided other treats that he loved, never anything but good proper food, and plenty of fresh water - this was after Pickett had lived thru ages of horrible food/no food/very rarely water; and Newt had fixed his injured arm and given him something magical to drink that made the pain go away and his body and spirit heal quickly. He was completely unlike the humans who had held him captive, shut up in a box, in the Before Newt time. Newt had come and taken him away from them, saved him, because he cared about bowtruckles and it was the right thing to do. So, Pick reasoned, it was really true that Newt had taken care of Pickett from the very start, taken very good care of him, the other bowtruckles, every creature in the case. And to this day…there was always something good to eat, there was always a warm pocket for him to ride in, stocked with ‘truckle snacks; without fail there were baths in perfect-temperature rainwater every couple of weeks or so to keep him clean and fresh…and every once in a while Newt would stand a flat stick next to him as he stood on Newt’s desk to see how tall he was. Every time, Pickett was a little taller, his head leaves flourishing - they were the only part of a full-grown bowtruckle that kept growing.  


And that was just the beginning. There was the attention, loads of it: The compliments on how green he was looking. The heartfelt thanks every time Pickett just, well, did his job as a bowtruckle. There were the running conversations throughout the day, as he rode on Newt’s shoulder. And the talks into the night, with Pick in the perfect location in his little tree next to Newt’s bed.  


And perhaps the best thing about his relationship with his Newt-tree: it was totally his choice. Once he was healed from his ordeal, Newt had offered to take him to a remote forest that was full of bowtruckles and other magical creatures, a protected place where he would never need fear humans again. That was when Pickett made his choice…when he picked Newt for his tree. Somehow, he sensed that this wizard, so self-reliant, so worldly, was in truth alone, sometimes even lonely, and really needed someone looking out for him; needed someone who would take care of him the way a bowtruckle takes care of their tree…  


And in return…as much as he drove Pick crazy at times, Newt often made him feel like the he was the best bowtruckle a tree could ever have, the absolute best. _He cares about all of us, even that prat Titus, and when he’s with each of us he makes each of us feel special. But I’m the one he shares all his time with. I’m the one he keeps with him, so he can be my tree, and I can take care of him._  


And take care of Newt he did, he focused on his tree’s well-being as any good bowtruckle would, and he took pride in the job. Every night he bedded down right next to his tree’s pillow, he could sleep well after a day’s good work.  


Bowtruckles are not given to deep philosophical thoughts. Nonetheless, Pickett found himself wondering, _what if I had to do something really dangerous, would I want Newt there too? No!_ He would never choose to expose his tree to danger, not if he could help it. That, of course, was the main problem with having Newt for a tree; Pick couldn’t keep him from doing anything, he wouldn't stay put like a proper tree, he kept running all over the world, having adventures, fooling around with dangerous magical creatures, doing stupid things that could get him hurt, and Pickett had surely had to be on hand to keep him safe…  


Pickett was now so scared he could hardly breathe. _He’s gone to do something so dangerous - he doesn't want me with him – !_  


“DAMN THAT SHOUTY WOMAN!!! This is ALL **HER** FAULT!!!” Pickett cried aloud, startling the other bowtruckles.  


This all started with HER, he seethed. He had wanted to settle her hash right off, after she grabbed Newt and disapparated them into that corner. But he’d promised: no more going for their eyes before Newt gave him a sign. (There had been – a mistake Pick made on the trip over the Water, with a Muggle. It had been kind of – a mess. Newt had been really annoyed.) At this moment, he was totally regretting that promise, swearing to himself that he would NEVER make a promise like that again, no matter how unhappy Newt was with him –  


Beside himself, Pickett began to climb down the tree’s trunk, ignoring the calls of the others (“Where do you think you’re going?” “You can’t leave the tree!” “Pickett, are you mad?”), and when he got to the ground he began to race in the direction (he thought) of the shed. It seemed to take forever, and he did a bit of dodging other creatures who were tempted to put bowtruckle on the day’s menu, but at last he was crawling up the familiar wooden steps. The door had been left open a crack, good! He slipped in.  


Having been on the floor of the shed often, he knew exactly where he was now. He was surprised to see the demiguise sitting on Newt’s bed, looking unhappy. _So you know something’s going on, too._ Otherwise Dougal would be in his nest. He had been very busy the past day or so. _He must be tired,_ Pick thought.  


Dougal stared back at him, also in surprise. “He left me on the tree,” Pickett told him. “He didn’t want me with him.”  
This news made Dougal look rather distressed.  


“I know, I think he’s gotten himself into something.” He craned his neck, to look up the ladder at the other end of the room. “Is the lid on tight?”  


Dougal nodded morosely. He’d been testing it himself, most like.  


“Well, maybe I…” He was a lot smaller than Dougal, it was worth a look. He scaled the ladder quickly and stood on the top step. The lid of the case was perhaps 4 inches above his tallest head leaf. But as he carefully examined things around him he saw no gapping, nothing even he could hope to slip thru. _Damn Niffler, he’s got Newt being extra careful with the lid,_ he thought.  


_Newt…_  


In that instant Pickett wanted to throw himself at the lid, attack it, rake it with his long sharp fingers, bite his way thru it if he had to, just get out of this case and find his human-tree and be there with him as a bowtruckle should be with their tree. It was his duty! What he was meant to do! Come what may, a bowtruckle defends his tree; especially, one like his mad, stupid, deaf-to-his-advice, totally wonderful Newt-tree.  


But he couldn’t get out; he couldn’t do anything. Held in by magic, he was helpless. Pickett sat down on the ladder step and uncharacteristically let the sap leak from his eyes, thinking about… _What if – what if – my Newt-tree – never comes back?_ Over their years together they had been thru so much, and Pickett had always-always-ALWAYS been there, supremely confident that he could protect his human-tree from whatever the world had to throw at them. Now his confidence crumbled. _Can I be wrong? Are there things in the world that Newt knows about that I don’t?_ Ever since they met, Pickett had always thought of himself as the wiser head of the two. He marveled at (and despaired of) his Newt-tree’s silly, flighty ways: the constant traveling, visiting strange remote places, seeking out ever stranger creatures; he had spent SO much time lecturing Newt about how foolish he was to do these things. But Newt paid not a whit of attention to any of his warnings.  


"It's the work, Pick. It's my work. My life's work," Newt had told him just the other day, looking up from the notes he was editing. "As much as it was when I got you away from those thieving wizards."  


"So, allright," he'd answered, standing on the shelf over Newt’s desk, "I can see helping creatures out of terrible trouble. I didn't say a word against – what did you call it? – liberating Frank, did I?"  


"As I remember, you did."  


"That's because the plan was mad."  


"But it worked." The wizard looked smug.  


He'd sighed. It was true. His human-tree had an amazing ability to pull off the most outrageous ideas, plots, and missions. His boyish, reticent, somewhat scattered demeanor hid a razor-sharp mind he successfully applied to all kinds of magizoological projects. He was a wizard possessed of cleverness, greatness of heart, and bottomless curiosity; and perhaps most important, these gifts were matched by his strength of will. This meant once he’d determined to do something, to act, very little could restrain the young wizard. Including laws...obeying them was nice to do, so long as it didn't get in the way of accomplishing his goals...  


"Well, fine," Pickett had begun then, "but what about -" and he caught himself. He'd been about to bring up the obscurus-thing; and that poor little human twig. He couldn't fault Newt for trying to save the life of a twig. It was just like him to do that. It had been a very sad and painful experience for them both; they were still aching from it. Yet, to the bowtruckle's shock, Newt had captured the obscurus-thing too. An awful, evil thing that had just taken the life of one who was very young and helpless! He'd asked his tree why.  


He got the grim reply, "I want to study it, Pick. I want to understand it. I want to know how to stop it."  


But while Pickett had paused, Newt had decided he didn't want to discuss his choices right now; and he conveyed it by pretending he didn't understand what the bowtruckle meant. He did this on occasion and this was, Pick knew, a load of erumpent dung. But Pick almost always took the hint and dropped the subject gracefully.  


Sometimes Newt would use the same act to amuse the residents of the wiggam tree. He would come up with the most ridiculous statements, chittering things like "Why aren't you purple, like me?" or "Next year without fail I will sauté all your headleaves," or, Pickett's favorite, "I need more noses here!" The bowtruckles would be falling out of the tree, they were laughing so hard; Pick found the line about noses especially funny because he had no idea what a nose was. The end result was, the other bowtruckles thought Newt knew only rudimentary Bowtrucklish. But Pickett knew better.  


That last memory teased a smile from Pickett; a second later he wept harder than ever. He didn’t like it, but it was possible his Newt-tree did know things of the world he did not. Again he thought of that terrible human-built room, that room that was meant to make death. He, in his bowtruckle mind, could never conceive of such a place, let alone actually plan it and build it and – and (shudder) use it. And while he had succeeded in saving his Newt from that room, he knew there had been other lives that had had no one to save them, that had ended in there.  


_Is that the kind of thing in the world that Newt knows of that I don’t? Are there worse things? Things I could not hope to defend against?_  


Well, when facing such an overwhelming foe, Pickett knew of only one thing to do – run! Get away! There was a time, every bowtruckle knew, when you had to flee. When all the forest was red and orange with tongues of blistering heat and black with smoke, you knew you could not stay in your tree. To stay was to die. So what was Newt doing, going to such danger? Instead of running away from death, was Newt running to it?  


The very thought hurt his insides. While his human-tree did things that were dangerous and stupid, he didn’t do them intending to die. He cared for his creatures and life and living, which made his risk taking all the more incomprehensible to Pickett. _But he’s going to something he thinks is too dangerous for me…which means it’s probably too dangerous for him. Something that could hurt or kill him! Why?!_ That was something no creature ever did. Creatures always ran away from death.  


Unless…  


He remembered one time, long ago, when he was very young, just a twig. His mother was showing him a good spot to find woodlice, and suddenly there was a big noise, and he looked up and there was a huge creature, with a loud deep barking voice and long fierce teeth, snarling at them. He was terrified, but his mother just looked at him and said, “Run as fast as you can, back up the tree.” Then she threw herself at the creature, flailing her long fingers in its face, screaming at it to “GET AWAY FROM MY SON!” She surprised it so, it stopped cold and just stared at her…then she poked it hard right in the middle of its’ sticking-out face, and it ran away. When they were both safe back in their tree, he said, “Mama, why didn’t you run with me? That thing was so big!” And his mother gazed at him, took him in her arms, and said, “Because I am your mother.”  


After all this time – he didn’t think he really understood her answer until now.  


There were sometimes when you had to face maybe dying…for others.  


Up til now he had never felt he was risking his life to protect his Newt-tree. He just didn’t think about it. He acted full of sureness that he could defeat anything; and so far, he had. _Well, maybe that dragon had scared me some, but I knew I could talk to it, so that wasn’t so bad. And those poachers that time – but once I figured out what to do, I wasn’t scared._ And besides, he could look after himself. Newt didn’t always seem to know this, he liked to say things like, “Pick, really, let me handle it, you could get hurt,” and Pick would reply, “Nah, you’re the one who’s going to get hurt if I don’t keep watching out for you,” and Newt would just shake his head.  


But what had happened? Was there now something so important that Newt was willing to die trying to do it? Something Pickett could not help him do?  


He felt cold all over. He felt horrible.  


_It would be like him, Pickett realized, to not want me there if he really thought he was going to die. He would not want me to die too._ Newt was like his mother.  


More sap from his eyes.  


Time passed. After a while Dougal came up the ladder to see him. Dougal liked to take care of everyone, and he was quite good at it. He brought some woodlice, and Pickett made himself eat, even tho he wasn’t hungry at all. Dougal the demiguise never spoke, he just made occasional sounds, but his large expressive eyes were easy to read. So they sat exchanging pensive looks in the semi-gloom at the top of the ladder.  


Pickett considered telling Dougal his fears about Newt, but he knew Dougal was on the sensitive side and he didn’t want to scare him. He had the feeling Dougal already had his own ideas about what might be happening, because the shadow in his amber eyes was unmistakable. “It will be okay, Dougal,” the bowtruckle felt he had to say. Dougal looked at him and shrugged.  


There they sat while more hours passed. Now the sun was beginning to go down in the case. Then it was getting to be time for the evening feeding and chores. Dougal was gone for a while, checking on everyone and doing for them what he could do. Minutes turned into hours, but still no return of their caregiver. As it got later and later, Pickett could sense a pall lowering over himself, Dougal, the entire case. His heart was twisting in his tiny narrow chest. He was sure it was about to break. But he didn’t want to let the sap out of his eyes in front of Dougal…  


Suddenly, there was a resounding cry from back inside the case, rather close to the shed. Pickett just had time to think, _**Frank—**_  


Then light exploded into the shed from above as the lid was flipped open, and Dougal and Pickett barely had time to get out of the way as Frank magically whooshed past them, up and out into the world. The two of them clung to the bottom steps of the ladder, and in his agitation, Dougal went invisible.  


“Dougal, it’s okay!” yelled Pickett, and after a few seconds he reappeared. Pick looked up, seeing an early dawn sky above him; he began to climb towards it.  


He pulled himself up over the edge of the case and beheld an amazing scene. They were in a gigantic place, a human-built place, but it had big holes in it, that were letting the sunrise shine in. There were lots of humans standing around, and Pickett could feel they were almost all wizards and witches. He saw Frank, up high, hovering, beating his great wings in place – and then he saw his Newt-tree - _**YES!**_ Pickett’s heart almost burst out of his chest! - the center of attention, throwing something high in the air for Frank to catch in his beak. Then the Thunderbird wheeled away and began to climb into the sky.  


As always happened with Frank, thunder rumbled, and clouds gathered, preparing to make rain. Pickett wondered why Frank was being set free now and not in Arizona, which Newt had said was far, far away…  


Then his view of the rising Thunderbird and the coming rain was cut off by something right in front of the case, someone leaning over it – it was Newt!!! And he looked AWFUL. He was dirty all over, his clothes were torn, there were hurts on him that were oozing red sap, and his eyes – he was so very tired – something very bad had happened to him…  


“But YOU’RE NOT KILLED!!!” Pickett cried, transported with joy, flinging himself onto Newt’s arm and scrambling to his shoulder. He was so jubilant he didn’t care about how dirty and unpleasant the shirt was to sit on. He almost went to get into Newt’s hair again, but it was full of all kinds of nasty stuff, so he didn’t. His Newt-tree needed a bath very badly! What had he been doing?  


“Aw, Pick,” croaked Newt, as the bowtruckle pressed himself against his sooty cheek and crooned affectionate sounds, cussing him out in between endearments. ("I was so scared - you IDIOT! - what has happened to you, you crazy wizard tree?!") Newt summoned a chuckle from somewhere as he said, “Thought I left you in the tree…you came all the way to the shed yourself? Oh, Pickett, that’s not a good thing to do…”  


“Neither is doing whatever you've been doing!” Pickett snapped in his ear, all business now. “Why do you do these things? You are a mess! You need cleaning up and healing and food and then sleep!” Then Dougal appeared and threw his arms around their Newt. Again jumping out of the way, he chose to slide down inside Newt’s shirtfront, and so endured a few seconds of being squashed in the demiguise’s hug. Ugh, now he was almost as dirty as Newt! But here, he could hear his human-tree’s heart pounding, and he didn’t like it. This had to stop.  


“Come down,” Pick chirped, hopping lightly out of the shirt to pull on Newt’s wrist with both long fingered hands. “We will take care of you.” Dougal nodded, eyes vast and round, pulling on Newt’s other arm.  


Their human friend shook his head. “Not yet, I can’t. I’ve got one more thing – to do –" He looked away over his shoulder, then back to them. “Go back down and wait for me, I won’t be long. I will probably bring a-a friend with me –”  


“That _shouty_ woman, I bet,” growled Pickett, and Newt gaped slightly at him. Dougal’s eyes impossibly widened further. The bowtruckle huffed, “Okay, okay, just come to us right away! You need to be taken care of.” Then he hauled himself up Newt’s chest to look him right in the eye, and said, “You are my TREE, you won’t listen and you do dumb things and you won’t let me take care of you and, and – you are the only tree I will ever want, ever.” He was being very un-bowtrucklish, saying all these things, but he didn’t care, it was the truth.  


Despite pain and weariness, Newt's remarkable blue-green eyes shone. "That's probably the nicest thing anyone has ever said to me, Pickett," he said humbly. "We're still partners, then?"  


"Always, Newt," said the bowtruckle. "Always."


End file.
